The Orc from Balmora
by Sigcius
Summary: Mehmed gro-Yaraz is Balmora's friendliest orc. It's a good thing, too. The backwaters of Vvardenfell are the ideal place for debtors from the mainland to hide, until Mehmed gets tangled in the shady world of the emperor's Blades. -A humorous and unconventional take on the Nerevarine prophecy. M for language.-
1. Chapter 1

_They have taken you from the Imperial City's prison,_

 _First by carriage and now by boat._

 _To the East. To Morrowind._

 _Fear not, for I am watchful._

 _You have been…_

 _You have…_

 _You…_

It was a strange dream. Mostly strange because I've lived in Morrowind for two years, I came of my own accord, and I've never been to prison.

Well, except that one time involving the count's daughter and a bottle of skooma. But that was only a day. Hardly counts.

I awoke, a cramp in my neck from sleeping against the old, splintered door of a dunmer tomb. Rain flecked my face. The rain in Vvardenfell never felt right, never tasted right. It tasted like soot and sadness, like the land itself. I stood and stretched, relieving myself of the makeshift shelter under which I'd taken refuge to catch a rest before the day's business. I snatched my chitin spear, a flexible but pitiful thing, and adjusted my ancient chain hauberk one would be hard pressed to call "armor."

Time to get a'plundering.

Dunmer tombs are the very soul of dunmer hypocrisy (hah, get it, soul?). Oh no, necromancy is bad. What do you mean we summon ghosts? They're our ancestors, you foreign s'wit. It's totally different. But slavery – that's our gods-given right. Now get out of my face, I don't have a lot of patience for questions, outlander.

Well, I'm Mehmed gro-Yaraz, and your ancestors are about to get a facefull of orcish muscle. But not before I take all that bonemeal. 'S good for concoctions.

It wasn't a large tomb, so the family who owned it must not have been wealthy. Regardless, I had always thought it strange the dunmer didn't try to protect them better. Skeletons and ghosts aren't nearly enough to stop a careful and witty graverobber. Especially the handsome ones like myself. One skeleton provided the only real resistance, since my spear just poked through its fleshless ribcage, so I simply lifted it from the ground on the spear and sent it toppling into a swiftly shattered urn. Among the broken bones of the tomb guardian I found a crumbling leathery quiver and a handful of arrows, which I snatched. My true reward, however, awaited on the pedestal: a glittering green gem. Perfect. Lightweight and valuable, exactly what every plunderer wants. Probably an emerald, though in the dim light of the tomb it was hard to tell. It'd keep me eating for a few days, anyway.

As I backtracked through the main foyer, only the light of faint candles to guide me, I heard the whispers of something not quite dead through an anterior door. Ghosts don't scare me. But they stubbornly refuse to yield to anything less than a silver blade, and my spear wasn't going to do much to an angry, incorporeal dunmer. Silver, given its nature, is not cheap. And I don't have the coin to invest in valuable metal only to chip and shatter it through a brigand's head. I'm a pretty bare-bones kind of orc, not a lot of money to throw around. I do what I do to get me through the next meal. There isn't a lot of opportunity on Vvardenfell, and ghosts aren't worth the danger.

So I left well enough alone. I suppose that means it turned out ghosts were an effective defense against grave robbers. But something caught my eye just as I was about to ascend the atrium stairs. A pair of boots poked from shadows in the corner.

Well, ghosts are one thing, but very-dead adventurers are another.

The corpse hadn't taken to rot, and as I rifled through its pockets it almost felt warm. Newly fallen, then. That gave me pause. I glanced around the foyer, the hairs on my neck raising. Nothing. Then I checked for a pulse. Found none. But I did find ninety septims, enough to sate an appetite and wash it down with matze. Say one thing for the dunmer, they make fine spirits. Hey-oh!

As I checked the pockets of the deceased one last time, my elbow nudged something in the dark. I froze. Yet again, only the silence of the tomb answered. I carefully felt along ground, but instead of finding the fuzzy remains of a cave rat, I found a small… box? Package? It felt like it was wrapped in twine. I tucked it under an arm as I pushed myself to my feet with my spear and made for the atrium stairs.

It was still raining, and the sun nearly set. I hadn't brought a cloak – that was stupid. But then I remembered I didn't own a cloak. Also stupid. But town wasn't far, and I hoofed it back, boots squelching in the mud along the bank of the Odai, the package raised to my face to protect my eyes, butt end of my spear giving me something like traction in the soft ground.

Balmora's a decent town. Since I came to Vvardenfell two years ago, I've lived in two places: Caldera and Balmora. The former is where I settled first, after I came from Cyrodiil fleeing – I mean, relieving myself of – some creditors. It's an imperial town, and there's a cadre of orcs who've set themselves up in a manor there, and a creepy little scamp that I swear stole my socks on three separate occasions. Probably the highest density of orcs on the whole island. But Caldera's too familiar. It's like a fake Cyrodiil, crammed into a tiny pocket of a dunmer-dimension. And it smells like industry, probably from the ebony mines.

Balmora's better. Much bigger, but not too big. Everyone knows everyone else. A lot of people know me, too, since orsimer are a rare sight, and orcs with big smiles and hearty laughs are rarer still. I'm the only one many of the dunmer can stomach, apparently. They seem to shun most of my kin.

That's okay. I'm not one of those orcs who'll stab you in the eye for saying the wrong thing within two words of "orc." I mean, as long as you aren't a racist shit. Sometimes that's hard for the dunmer, though.

As I passed Balmora's moaning silt strider, I squeezed my spear in the crook of my arm and put my hand in my pocket, just to make sure the emerald was still there. I turned the gem over in my fingers, traced my thumb along its smooth edges, trying to decide if I should sell it now or grab some food. I ended up choosing the latter, since I'd found that gold on the dead adventurer in the tomb.

Didn't even see who he (or she) was. Elf? Man? Cat or frog? I guess it doesn't matter. Whoever it was, they're dead. I'm not a callous bastard, I think, but I didn't weep for them. I didn't know who they were.

I briefly considered heading to the Fighter's Guild, since I wouldn't have to pay for a bed. I'm technically an Associate, which is imperial for "bitch." But I've been thin on the ground there ever since I completed a contract clearing out moon sugar addicts in the river's cistern dump, and Eydis would probably demand to know where I've been and why I haven't taken another job. So I headed to the Eight Plates instead.

A few patrons looked at me funny, having stepped into the place sopping wet, with a rain-soaked package in one hand and my armor dripping across the not-so-fine carpets. But I grabbed a rag meant for just that purpose, wiped myself down and wrung out my ponytail before I headed to the bar.

Dulnea Ralaal, the dunmer bartender, was taking stock behind the counter among chatting drinkers. She threw a nod at me. "Another contract, Mehmed?"

"Yea," I lied. It was best to keep on the down-low about one's tomb-plundering activities, unless they really _were_ contracts. I shook the soaked package. "Sent to get this."

Still counting bottles, Dulnea threw me another glance. "What is it?"

"No idea. 'Long as it becomes gold for me."

"And 'long as that gold pays for whatever you're about to order."

I set fourteen septims on the counter and called for a matze and cooked rat meat. Cheap stuff, rat meat, but it's got the protein you need. I leaned my spear against the bar and took a stool, setting the package on the countertop. I debated opening it right there and then, but thankfully my wits won and I nudged it aside. No telling what it contained, and I wasn't willing to announce to half of the town that I'd just come into possession of a catty of malachite. Hoped that was what it was.

An emerald, a few old arrows, and ninety septims – no make that seventy-six now. A decent haul. The arrows I'd keep. I had a bow stashed away in the fighter's guild, but free arrows were hard enough to come by, and like the arrows, my skill with the bow was getting rusty. So really, I only had the emerald to transform into profit. I pressed an elbow against my pocket, just to be sure the rock was still there.

The matze came first when Dulnea finished with another patron, but I sipped it until the rat meat order was up. I consumed the meal quickly, famished, and only then downed a few healthy gulps of drink. I took the rest of the bottle with me when I bought a room. Sixty-six septims, now. It always disappears so fast.

The rooms at the Eight Plates are alright, like Balmora, like everything about Vvardenfell. Dry enough, with clean blankets and a clean pillow. Small, but I didn't have much to carry, and everything else I own is at the Guild. I set my spear in the corner, pulled my chain shirt over my head, stripped from my leathers and sat on the bed, the packet in my lap. I undid the twine.

Inside was a bundle of papers wrapped in oilskin. Good-quality oilskin, too. I would have to think over whether to sell it or keep it. The papers…

UDQMDWLGF UALYK ECKAGIK

…what in Malacath's name…?

MBAGKXWTFSNW SX VVW IPTWTWSL RVVGF GF EPSFSK

Imperial. Had to be. Only the imperials did crazy stuff like codes. Codes and messages and secret agents ran the whole damn empire. That's what your average commoner's impression was, at least. And while I'm not your average commoner, that's what I figured, too. The papers were useless.

No. Worse than useless. Dangerous. Imperial codes in a backwater like Morrowind? That's some shady sujamma.

I flipped through the rest of the papers. X's and Z's and Q's laughed back at me. Until the end, the last paper, which was thankfully written in sane script.

 _Deliver to Caius Cosades, Balmora._

Even dangerous-er. An imperial code meant for an imperial in Balmora.

The smart me should've done one of two things: burn the letters, or flee Balmora. Maybe both. But I was not smart at that moment. I reached into my pocket and withdrew the emerald. It flashed in the flickering light of a candle as I turned it over in my hand. Pretty. Valuable. But it wasn't much bigger than my fingernail and the money from selling it wouldn't last long. Balmora's not an expensive town, but it ain't cheap either, with Hlaalu fingers in every pot. Maybe, just maybe, I could turn the papers into money somehow.

At least I'd had the wherewithal to not pilfer anything else from the corpse in the tomb. Probably an imperial agent who found himself on the wrong end of a skeleton's sword. I had no intention of being implicated in his (or her!) death.

I realized I was tired, very tired. Hoped I hadn't come down with sickness from running in the rain. I wrapped the papers in the oilskin again and hid them under my pillow before I laid down. It wasn't much past sunset, but right then I just wanted some time to myself.

Funny thing, the last thing I thought of _before_ I drifted off to sleep was that dream I had sleeping in the alcove of the dunmer tomb. But when I fell into oblivion, I actually dreamt of Cyrodiil.


	2. Chapter 2

I dumped a bag of rat's heads at Eydis' feet. She scowled at the bloody canvas sacked, nudged it with a bonemold-plated toe. "What the hell is this?"

"The job," I said. "At the dunmer's house. Where's my pay?"

She didn't hide her scowl well as she turned to open her desk drawer. "If it stains the floorboards, I've half a mind to take it from your cut." A flick of her wrist, and I fumbled to catch the tossed pouch of gold. "Or make you scrub it out yourself."

"We're the Fighters Guild," I said as I fingered through the weathered coins, counting. "Half the place is blood-stained."

Knew I shouldn't have said that, as soon as I saw the scowl on Eydis' face deepen. "Do you want to work off your debt or not?"

That hurt, and hurt more as I finished a rough count of my pay. Fifty septims, half of what'd be expected for a job like stabbing rats. I owed the Balmora branch of the guild for covering a gambling, ah, _deficit_ at the South Wall. And by "cover" I mean Eydis and a pair of sellswords gutted a goldrunner who'd tried to end me when I didn't have what I owed. The Guild protects its own, Eydis always said. Even if its steward doesn't like you. So half my pay went to Eydis, for the forseeable future.

"Yea," I said finally. "Got anything else for me?"

Eydis produced a rolled up parchment from her belt pack. "This just came in from Caldera last night. I held onto it for you, since you know the place."

She gave me a clever grin as I took the paper. Didn't like that grin. Eydis had no reason to be nice. When I unrolled and read it, I knew why. "Four Telvanni agents? The Caldera ebony mines? You've got to be kidding."

"Hundred for each. Four hundred for the job."

"So two hundred."

Eydis shrugged. "It's more than fifty."

"I can't handle four agents. Four _Telvanni_ agents. Who do I look like, King Kurog?"

That bitter grin. "As a matter of fact…"

"Stuff it, nord." I flicked the paper in her face. Probably shouldn't have done that either. "I like my own neck."

I was down the steps before I saw how she reacted. Sorting through a shipment of hammers, Wayn, the Balmora branch's redguard smith, gave me a look somewhere between sympathy and incredulity. Well, maybe not incredulity. Wayn had taught me that word, so I associated it with him, without _really_ knowing what it meant. He's smart, for a smith.

I'm no idiot, either. A job to kill four armed agents? That's a death wish. So I decided I'd skip the Guild for a bit, and make my coin the old-fashioned way.

(())

On second thought, I kind of regret the old-fashioned way.

The cave loomed before me, a gaping black maw yawning from the gap between crags of black volcanic rock. The Mamaea Foyoda valley in which the cave was embedded smelled like ash and soot. Just like the rain, which thankfully wasn't coming down. Rain in the foyoda picks up all the volcanic dust and drags streams of black, foul water southwards. One time I was caught in a storm while traversing Balmora's foyoda. Couldn't stop coughing for three days – the dust gets in your lungs.

I tugged on the neck of my chain hauberk. Well, gold wasn't gonna make itself. I stepped gingerly into the maw, descended into the blackness. No torches. Sneaking is a handy skill, and I've got decent vision in the dark, as long as I don't delve too deep, which I had no intention of doing.

As I picked my way into the cave, I tapped the butt end of my spear on the ground before each step. Every so often I reached behind me to touch the hunting bow strung around my shoulder, just to reassure myself it was there. It was the thing I'd picked up in the dunmer tomb, and while it wasn't in great shape, it'd do in a pinch. Not that it would be terribly useful here. No light, and not a lot of space to pull the draw. What I wouldn't give for a good crossbow…

Wait. Some light, ahead. Probably the roof had caved in. No telling if the way was blocked. A shame, if so. Local bandits liked to hide their goods in these caves, often left it unguarded, thinking no one in their right mind would poke around. Well, Mehmed gro-Yaraz is of right mind, and he's _definitely_ poking around…

…poking around a corner, to find candles arrayed atop rocks and boulders down the length of the cavern. Red flames flickered and morphed, playing crimson on the rocky walls. Strange. I guess some outlaws favor a particular ambiance. I drew the bow. Well, there was light. Might as well make use of it.

Sneaking down the way, I notched an arrow ready. I poked the tip around another bend in the cavern, and slunk back just in time. In a natural chamber about as wide as a silt strider, ringed by guttering candles, stood a silhouetted figure. I thought it faced away from me, but it was hard to tell.

Pressed against the cold stone wall, I weighed the chances of the figure being some poor sap, a traveler who had taken shelter in the cave, pitifully lost a few dozen strides from the entrance. And I found those chances slim.

My arrow took him (or her) in the ribs, and they slumped to the ground. When I approached I expected to find an outlaw arrayed in some mismatch of leathers, maybe a couple daggers or a rusted iron longsword stuffed through a belt. But the fellow whose corpse I crouched next to was a gray-skinned thin dunmer, naked but for a loincloth. His arms weren't much more than twigs. Well. I (probably) hadn't skewered a well-to-do innocent man, which was good, but unless he'd jammed a septim up his arse, I doubt he had anything of value under that loincloth. Wasn't about to check.

Deeper in the cave and down a slope, more candles flickered among rocky recesses. Maybe I'd read this place all wrong, and it wasn't a bandit hideout, but a nudist colony.

Around another bend, a wooden door rose from the murk. Also strange. But why build a door, except to keep people out? Must be some valuables in there. Spear in hand, I took the latch and creaked it open, slowly…

The door burst open, splinters flying. I yelped and stumbled back, nearly lost my footing. I heard cries of "N'wah!" and "S'wit!" but the mass of muscle that had busted down the door didn't look like it had articulated those words.

I'd heard tales of bonewalkers before from the grandstanders who boasted of their exploits at the Eight Plates. But I'd never seen one in the flesh.

It roared and swiped a clawed hand, tearing through my trouser leg. Stung like a dozen netches right in the dongliz. I croaked something – maybe a scream? – and jammed the business end of my chitin spear through its shoulder. The thing roared again and twisted, wrenching the spear from my hands.

"Oh shit."

I booked it back the way I came, spear lost, bow rattling across my shoulder, quiver bouncing along my leg. Or maybe that was piss. A glance to the rear and I saw the monstrosity tear my spear from its arm, and lurch its way after me.

Maybe it was an insane moment of bravado, or some calculating corner of my mind deciding now would be a good time to strike, but in a single motion I halted, unslung my bow, drew and notched an arrow, and readied to loose-

The bow snapped just above the handle.

"Shitty dunmer work!" I gasped, tossing the broken pieces to the ground as I booked it once more.

(())

Wayn wrapped bandages around my bloody leg as I sat atop a crate in the Guild. "A bonewalker, you say?"

"Uh," I grunted. Didn't dare look up at Eydis, who no doubt had a smug look on her face. Arrogant nords.

"Can't imagine one so close to Balmora," Wayn said as he pinned the bandages tight. "Not unless a rogue necromancer set up shop nearby. Where'd you say you were, again?"

I grimaced, rotating the ankle of the injured leg. "The foyoda, east of Fort Moonmoth. Some cave."

Eydis snorted. "A candle-lit cave."

Now I couldn't help myself, and shot her a glare. Sure enough she wore a smug grin. "Yes, a candle-lit cave. Wayn's probably right. Must be some mage's idea of mystical mumbo-jumbo."

"Did you at least make a decent haul?"

"Not that it's any of your business, since it wasn't a Guild matter, but no, I did not." I gave her a rude gesture. "Maybe if I had my own bonemold armor, I would've been just fine."

"Save some coin and you can order a set from Meldor."

"I'd have that coin if you didn't swipe it from under my nose."

"And you'd have it if you weren't a chronic gambler."

I felt the blood rising in my face. "Or maybe I _would_ have it, if those pink-skins at the South Wall didn't toss loaded dice."

Wayn sighed as he finished patching me up. "You know South Wall's full of Thieves Guild. That's what they do. They _thieve._ "

I gave him an incredulous look. Or, a look I hoped was properly incredulous. "You're taking her side, now?"

The redguard shrugged and got to his feet. "She's right."

"And don't forget it," Eydis said, arms crossed. "You want climb the ranks? Be a steward one day? Pay attention."

"To what?" I grumbled, getting to my feet. Leg didn't hurt as bad as I'd thought it would.

Eydis snapped her fingers in my face. "To Balmora. To its people. To what's going on, who hangs out where, who answers to whom, and where the money goes. You _need_ to know these things if you want to rise in the Guild, Mehmed."

"I'm not interested in ranks," I said. "I'm an orc, and I can fight, and fighting pays. That's why it's called the _Fighters_ Guild."

Eydis gave me a look that suggested a sense of superiority. Damn nords always thought they were the better warriors. I say, put your average orsimer and nord in a ring, bare-bones or armed, and the greenskin'll come out on top more times than not.

It just so happened to be a good thing that Wayn was my friend, because I _wouldn't_ bet against a redguard. He put a hand on my shoulder. "No one's asking you to rise in the ranks. You do you."

Eydis snorted. "If that's all you want in this world…" she pulled a rolled up paper from inside the cuff of a bonemold bracer and flicked it at me. "Here. The job's still open."

This time I caught her unceremoniously offered item. Four Telvanni agents. Better than a bonewalker. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"Your leg's okay," Wayn said, "but I'd go to the dunmer temple, or Fort Moonmoth, and have the healers take a look at you. Never trust a bonewalker wound."

"I don't trust a lot of things," I said, looking at Wayn but meaning something else. "But I'll take the job." I waved. "But get me a bow, if you could. Orcish made."


End file.
